


Rest Upon Your Shoulders

by RueRambunctious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:46:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Wherein Mycroft Holmes works too much and insists he is being persecuted by a certain DI Lestrade - who has a fondness for Mycroft's plump bottom.





	Rest Upon Your Shoulders

Mystrade

Of all the incompetent idiots in the Metropolitan Police, Mycroft Holmes inwardly curses, sodding Lestrade is the absolute worst.

Mycroft is stood with his back pressed uncomfortably against a panelled wall whilst the unfairly, boyishly handsome Detective Inspector Lestrade stands rather too close to be comfortable. Mycroft cannot step away without knocking over the umbrella stand (or possibly being tasered by an X2).

Mycroft crosses his arms over his chest, tries his best to look intimidating, and sneers, “Haven't you learned by now?”

The silver-haired prick has the audacity to wink and if Mycroft could prove it he'd have the bastard's warrant card for it. “We got a tip that someone of your description was being rather furtive around Westminster,” Lestrade says with a shrug and a smile.

“I'm a bloody civil servant!” Mycroft snaps. They both know fine well by now what that actually means.

“So you're in a demographic more likely than most to be rather naughty then aren't you?” Lestrade says with an infuriating twinkle in his boyish eyes. Mycroft hates him.

“You can't say that!” Mycroft snaps. He hates that his verbosity turns to dross around this infuriating man. Mycroft hopes the tosser can't see (and misconstrue) that he is visibly quivering – with anger.

“Can't I?” says Inspector Lestrade. That he's here at all is a joke: this is a job for a couple of constables at most, and ultimately isn't a job for anyone, because it's an unlawful waste of taxpayer's money.

“This is harassment,” Mycroft spits.

Lestrade's brows wrinkle in chastisement. “This is all standard procedure, I assure you,” he states coolly.

Mycroft resist the urge to sniff and stamp his foot, but he cannot help but scowl as officers poke through his life. There's a flag on his address that is supposed to keep the heathens from his doorway, but Lestrade always manages to circumvent it somehow. Mycroft has suspicions that's more from incompetence and malpractice than any sort of cleverness on the Inspector's side.

“All clear, sir,” says an olive-skinned officer who looks far too bright to be answering to this fool. Mycroft eyes her warrant card (a dreadful looking thing, that anyone could copy) and memorises her name. Whether Sgt Donovan will find herself in his complaint report is yet to be seen.

Lestrade nods at his sergeant and waves the other police officers off. He moves back from Mycroft a little, but not enough to leave the man's personal space. Mycroft draws himself up to his full height (a whole two inches taller than the DI, not that Lestrade really cared) and meets the other man's gaze imperiously. “You've gone too far, this time. I'll have your badge, Greggory-”

Mycroft's words fly from his mouth with his breath as DI Lestrade thrusts him hard against the wall. When Mycroft can breathe again he winces and tries to shift his position.

Lestrade shakes his head warningly. “Just you stay where you are, Mykey. You might be getting softer around the middle but do you really think I wouldn't notice you nearly stabbing me through your trousers? We were inches apart.”

Mycroft presses his lips together tightly, even though he knows he shouldn't, because it makes them look colourless and thin. He tries and mostly succeeds not to turn an ugly shade of puce.

“Don't you give me the silent treatment, you spoilt brat,” Greg growls softly near Mycroft's ear.

Mycroft's lips part indignantly. “You shoved your-”

“Don't give me that attitude either,” Lestrade scolds. “You get off on being manhandled and you know it.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, Greggory, not every posh boy is gagging for your bit of rough,” Mycroft responds acerbically.

Greg laughs, openly joyful and not a bit biting. Mycroft loathes him for it. “I don't believe that and neither do you,” the inspector says. “At least, not in your very specific case.”

“I'm going to file a report and a lawsuit against you for harassment, and I am going to have your badge,” Mycroft growls.

“You're going to drop the attitude, Mycroft Holmes, or I'm not going to give you what you want,” Lestrade cautions.

Mycroft feels a little chided inside but refuses to let that show. “What I want is for you to never darken my door- OW!”

The blasted DI has spun Mycroft around via a firm (crushing!) grip of an expensive suit jacket and Mycroft is not best pleased about it. His hipbones throb from their sudden, painful contact with the wall and surely if his middle had increased as much as Greg intimated that should have padded them a little.

“It's only you and I here right now Mykey, and do you know what that means?” Lestrade asks in a low voice that makes Mycroft shiver.

Mycroft does not look over his shoulder. “It means you should follow suit and leave me alone,” he grumbles. “I have pressing work to do.”

Lestrade pushes Mycroft further into the wall until it's perfectly evident that Mycroft is not the only one sporting enthusiastic arousal. “It _means_ that I'm going to fuck you so hard you're going to feel me for the rest of the week,” Greg whispers, gripping Mycroft's buttock in a way that makes the other man squeak embarrassingly, “and it _also_ means that if you tell me any more lies I'm going to leave my handprints on your backside; understood?”

Mycroft bites his lip and frowns against the wall. He says nothing.

Greg Lestrade audibly sighs, smiles, and then cracks his open hand off of Mycroft's plump posterior. Mycroft jumps and twists around to glower over his shoulder indignantly at the other man.

Greg grins. He squeezes Mycroft's bottom possessively, rubs away the sting from his earlier smack, then slaps the same spot again, firmly.

Mycroft hisses. “Greggory, I have work to do!” he protests.

Greg massages the soft flesh in his hand with more sympathy than his voice betrays. “Your work can wait, Mycroft Holmes. Anthea told me you've barely left the office in _days_ , and we have an agreement about that, don't we?”

For the first time, Mycroft's expression softens to confusion. He turns to look at Greg as much as he reasonably can with the bastard's hands holding his hips in place. “Anthea told you?”

DI Greg Lestrade gives Mycroft a stern but affectionate look that makes the other man's stomach squirm. “Anthea told me how little you've properly eaten and slept recently,” Greg admonishes. “We've had words about this before.”

Mycroft looks away uneasily. “Like you've never worked long hours on a case before,” he pouts.

“I work the occassional twelve hour shift,” Lestrade says. “You work fourteen, sixteen, _eighteen_ hour shifts every day of the week. You live and breathe your work. It's not healthy.”

Mycroft bristles softly. “The security of our great nation-”

“Is not on your shoulders alone,” Lestrade says firmly.

Mycroft sighs with an air of martyrdom. “Fine,” he says ungratefully. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Well for a start, you can let me take your trousers down,” Lestrade says with a grin. “I'm going to give you the good, long fuck you've been missing out on, and that'll help you get a proper sleep. Then, I'll put a cushion on your dining room chair and you can come down for a good feed.”

“Thought I was getting fat?” Mycroft says tartly.

Lestrade smiles with boyish unrepentance. “I love your chubby, little arse as well you know. But I'm certain we can both get thin again if I fuck you senseless all weekend, and feed you actual, nutritious food instead of whatever rubbish is nearest the office.”

“Since when can you cook?” Mycroft mumbles.

“Since my wife left me years ago and I had to either learn or starve,” Greg says with a roll of his eyes.

Mycroft presses his lips together. “What do you mean, 'all weekend'? I can't give you a few hours today _and_ -”

“You're signed off of work until I'm satisfied you're fully rested,” Greg says. “Anthea's sending a doctor around in the morning.”

“But-”

“But nothing, Mycroft Holmes,” says Lestrade. He kisses the side of the other man's neck and reaches around to unfasten Mycroft's belt. “A good, sound buggering is absolutely in order.”

Mycroft sighs, nods, and turns back around to face the wall. He pushes his posterior out a little more. “Fine, but the lube's upstairs and it's been a while for me, so I'll need it. Shall we?”

Greg yanks the other man closer by the back of his trousers for another kiss, then pulls some lubricant from his pocket. “Oh Mykey, you didn't think I came over here ill-prepared, did you?”

Mycroft drops his forehead against the wooden panels. He's smiling as he says, “I hate you.”

Greg Lestrade shoves Mycroft's trousers down and adds another pink handprint to the 'civil servant's' bottom. “I know you don't,” says the detective inspector fondly.


End file.
